


Octopus

by happybeans, inkforhumanhands



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Brett goes to Columbia too, College, Drinking Games, Law School, Lesbian Marci Stahl, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Never Have I Ever, POV Matt Murdock, Takes place in 2010 for some reason just go with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happybeans/pseuds/happybeans, https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkforhumanhands/pseuds/inkforhumanhands
Summary: A small party with Foggy's study group gets out of hand when Matt takes a joke Foggy makes about his lack of personal space when drunk personally. Foggy doesn't get that Matt is only comfortable enough to cuddle with him, but will a game of Never Have I Ever end up setting the record straight?
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 77





	Octopus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catholicism_and_comics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catholicism_and_comics/gifts).



> Inspired by Catholicism_and_comics' prompt: Matt at one point gets v drunk around Foggy and gets v clingy: Foggy assumes this is a trait of drunk Matt and warns his friends of getting octopused. Matt doesn't take finding out abt this well since Foggy was the one person he felt he could trust with physical contact.
> 
> Notes:  
> ①This fic takes place in 2010 for some reason (don't @ us) and there is a reference to Justin Bieber, who at the time was known solely for his song "Baby" and the lyrics "baby baby baby ooh."  
> ②"Gold star" refers to a "gold star lesbian" which just means a lesbian who hasn't had any experience with men. It's not a great term in real life as it throws a lot of wlw under the bus, but these are characters in fiction and sometimes they say things.  
> ③Sufjan Stevens is an indie music artist.

Matt pulls his sweatshirt sleeves down to cover his hands. It’s October, and the creaky old steam radiators Foggy tells him jut grotesquely from the walls of each dorm room have yet to be turned on. That’s half the point of the alcohol, honestly, and Matt looks forward to getting some in him as Brett readies an empty plastic cup with his name on it. Even if all they have is tequila because Brett and his roommate Jake “aren’t exactly running a bar, here, Matt.” 

“Careful you don’t pour him too much,” he hears Foggy warn Brett, and his brow creases as he struggles to predict the punchline before Foggy gets there. “Three drinks deep and he goes full octopus-mode.”

 _Octopus?_ Foggy’s choice of words leaves Matt colder than the chill air seeping through the cracks in the ancient windowsill above Brett’s bed. He imagines himself from Foggy’s perspective, clammy and with suckers, suffocating in all the worst ways. 

Brett brushes off Foggy’s warning. “Thanks, but I didn’t need to know about your love life,” he jokes.

“Hah, yeah,” Foggy says, and Matt can hear the eye roll in his tone.

Foggy’s casual dismissal hurts. Matt knows he and Foggy aren’t a thing, and yeah, maybe he should have had more self-restraint those other nights, but he also thought that Foggy knew those drunken cuddles were unique to their friendship—their totally-not-together-but-if-it-happened-Matt-wouldn’t-fight-it-ship. Okay, maybe it’s a little more than that on Matt’s end. But the possibility that his affection has been unwelcome this whole time ties a knot in his stomach. Why else, though, would Foggy joke about it if not to signal his discomfort? 

“Orange or grapefruit?” Brett asks him once he’s set the glass bottle of tequila back down on his desk with a thump.

A pause just long enough to make things awkward later, Matt says, “Huh?”

“For a mixer.”

Matt shuts his eyes in a protracted blink and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “Uh, grapefruit,” he answers. 

The juice splashes downward to meet the tequila already in the bottom of the cup, and some of the resulting spray mists its way into the fibers of Matt’s sweatshirt. He’s going to have to throw this in the laundry after tonight, because if he doesn’t the lingering smell is going to deal him psychic damage with every breath he takes.

Brett guides Matt’s hand to take back his now-full cup. Matt’s head is spinning before he’s even taken his first sip, and he’s grateful for the help. He finds himself a seat on Brett and Jake’s floor, as much because he no longer trusts his legs not to shake as because that’s where everyone’s going to end up anyway. He leans back into the side of Brett’s bed, and the metal frame cuts into his spine. Still more comfortable than how Foggy’s joke has left him. 

Foggy settles next to him, a few inches away judging from the halo of his body heat. Matt can’t help but put another inch between them. The hard metal at his back will keep him enough company, he thinks, as he slides over. If Foggy notices Matt’s move, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he takes a sip of his orange juice and tequila cocktail and sucks his teeth in disgust once it’s disappeared down his throat. It mixes with his breath, sour and pungent, and Matt identifies the emotion it provokes in him as resentment.

Marco, who Foggy once joked looked like little orphan Annie before they really knew him, on account of some unruly red curls and a nose dusted with freckles, steps over him on his way to set up Jake’s iPod dock. The rapid clicks of the dial tell Matt that he’s scrolling down far, looking for something in particular. He finds whatever it is and locks the iPod into the dock. The opening mallet percussion of Sufjan Stevens’s “Chicago” rings out, and Brett groans.

“Not this again,” he says. “You come into _my_ room and you play Sufjan? Get out,” he teases Marco. 

“One day you’ll come to appreciate my perfectly curated playlists,” Marco says simply, and he, too, takes a seat on the floor. 

Jake plops down across from him and diagonal to Foggy, and Brett completes the circle. 

“Wasn’t Marci coming too?” asks Matt, because he can think of nothing else to say. He’s friendly with Foggy’s study group, but he’s always preferred to go it alone. The only reason he’s here is because Foggy insisted he come, and now thanks to Foggy’s comment he’s going to be self-conscious the whole time. This is going to be great. 

“Do you really think she’d pass up an opportunity to be fashionably late?” Foggy says.

“Or free booze,” Jake adds. 

Matt smiles, or it might be a grimace from the way it stalls halfway up his cheeks, but he thinks it’s enough of a response. 

The group settles into some easy banter, and Matt more or less follows along, piggybacking off a statement or two. He asks Brett for a refill not long after he’s received the first one, and he waits for Foggy to say something about how they might be approaching the danger zone. How they’d all have to be careful not to end up suffocated in cuddles. But the dig about his drunken affection doesn’t come.

Soon Jake suggests a drinking game, and they narrow down the choices until they’ve decided on Never Have I Ever. 

Brett asks if everyone remembers the rules, and of course Matt has to admit he’s forgotten the details. 

“Everyone holds up ten fingers, and when it’s your turn you say ‘never have I ever’ and then something that you haven’t done but you think other people probably have. For the people listening, if they have done that thing then they have to put a finger down and take a sip of their drink. Got it?”

Matt nods. He supposes it’s a good thing they’re doing sips rather than shots, because he can already feel his equilibrium slipping.

Marco starts them off with, “Never have I ever unironically liked a Justin Bieber song,” and Foggy informs Matt when Brett’s thumb folds into his hand and he takes a swig. 

“This is character assassination,” Brett grumbles while everyone else snickers. 

Matt’s up next, and he immediately regrets not having used Marco’s turn to wrack his brain for something suitable to say. All it takes for inspiration to hit, though, is for the horrid scent of Foggy’s orange juice-tequila mix to waft up his nose once more. What he comes up with isn’t nice; it’s really not. But with “octopus” still echoing in his head like an ugly, one-sided litany, he’s not sure he cares. He’s not sure that isn’t the point. 

“Never have I ever thought a professor was propositioning me,” he says. Foggy shifts uncomfortably beside him.

“Who—” Jake starts, and promptly gets an elbow in the ribs from Brett. He coughs and rubs his side.

“Okay...a little below the belt, but okay…,” Foggy says, coupled with a wounded laugh but taking it in stride, and tips back his drink without further complaint. His hair whispers across his shoulder afterward, and Matt can nearly feel the searching look Foggy directs his way. Probably wondering what he did to deserve this slight. Whatever, Matt rationalizes; it makes him feel better to know he hasn’t been the only one hurt by a careless remark tonight, anyway.

“Foggy, your turn,” Marco says, eager to steer the game away from what he can tell is a landmine. 

“Right. Uhhh...Never have I ever drunk texted an ex.” 

Of course. A perfectly innocuous entry into the game. Good for Foggy. 

“Brett and Marco,” Foggy says under his breath to Matt because that’s who’s drinking this round, and Foggy is so _good_ it gets under Matt’s skin. Anyone else and they’d forget—miss a round, let Matt pick up what was happening from the “Really, Marco?”s and the smacks to shoulders somewhere to his left accompanied by “Nuh uh”s. But Foggy is good, so he doesn’t forget. 

Matt has to drink twice because he’s both gotten into a fistfight (An interrogation ensues, but he deftly sidesteps giving away too many details.) and fallen asleep on the train and missed his stop (Brett gloats about his win.). They’ve made it back to Marco for a round two when there’s a single sharp rap at the door. Marci sweeps in and reaches down to take off her pumps in one fluid motion that Matt’s radar would have had trouble parsing even sober if it weren’t for Jake loudly making fun of her for wearing heels just to travel down a flight of stairs to the boys’ floor from the girls’.

Marci’s quick with a comeback. “Maybe if you put half as much thought into your own appearance you’d be able to pull a date.”

The rest of the boys holler and clap as Marci walks straight to the alcohol and pours herself a cup. “Never Have I Ever?” she asks astutely once the clamor has died down. 

“Yup. You can go next if you want,” Marco offers. 

Marci drags over one of the wheeled desk chairs and crosses her legs. She must tower over everyone else seated on the floor, Matt thinks. “Never have I ever kissed a boy,” she says, the tiniest bit of mischief creeping into her voice. Her chair creaks when she leans, satisfied, back into it as if to say her work here is done. Because Matt’s keen on torturing himself, though, his ears hone in on another sound: Foggy’s jumpy heartbeat and whatever that might mean. 

Jake shifts forward. “Seriously? Never?” 

“Gold star,” Marci replies. Her fingernails graze the fabric of her blouse as she pantomimes brushing dirt from her shoulder. “Nobody’s drinking? Is everyone in this room a lesbian? How boring for us,” she deadpans.

Marco snorts. His breath hitches on the inhale back in, and a taut second elapses before he says, “Speak for yourself,” and tips his cup back. 

“ _Marco_ ,” Marci says to show her approval. 

Matt misses the others’ reactions, only vaguely registering a wolf whistle once Marco’s told the story of his kiss. His focus lies on Foggy’s thudding heart. The sweaty palms he wipes on his jeans one by one while he passes his cup back and forth between them. Foggy’s nervous, but why? Matt detects Foggy glance at him again, and it clicks—he must be afraid that Matt will put down a finger too, that he’ll let it slip that his octopusing means something. And wouldn’t that just be the end of the world? Matt bristles. 

Matt’s attention is brought back to the game at hand when Marco puts forth his next contribution. “Never have I ever been serenaded on campus for Valentine’s Day.” The creak of one of Marci’s fingers bending down over her ring gives her away to Matt. Not wholly unexpected. At least one of Marci’s legion of admirers must have shelled out the two dollars it took to send one of the a capella groups knocking on her door, all decked out in so much red glitter Matt could _smell_ it. And that thought, amplified and distorted by bitterness and tequila, gives Matt his next idea. 

But before he can take his turn, Brett asks none too subtly, “You wanna be serenaded, Marco?” and in unison the group takes a preparatory breath. Matt gamely sings along as they erupt into a chorus of “Baby baby baby oooh,” the prospect of some light revenge buoying him. Marco groans and covers his ears, but the group only gets louder, until they reach the limits of their collective lyrical knowledge and fade out clumsily. 

“I hate you guys,” he says, with far too much affection in his voice.

Matt can feel everyone’s attention move to him in anticipation of his turn. A spike of adrenaline hits him, and he smirks. “Never have I ever been rejected from every single a capella group on campus.” The sentence drops like dead weight from his mouth, and perhaps unsurprisingly he’s met with silence. Foggy hadn’t exactly kept his plans to try out a secret, and anyone could have drawn their own conclusions when the topic gradually disappeared from his conversations. They all know what Matt is doing.

Foggy’s molars tap together as his jaw clenches, and the tears that must be forming in his eyes give off a singular, salty smell. He swallows his emotions and raises his cup to his lips stiffly to take his drink. 

Marci breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Okay, did something happen between these two before I got here?” she asks, addressing everyone in the room except Matt and Foggy. 

Their answers overlap. Jake’s loud proclaiming that Matt’s being an asshole buries the rustle Marco’s clothes make as he shrugs. Brett makes a bid for a more impartial retelling. All the sounds and voices jumble together until Foggy’s sharp tone slices through them: “Never have I ever incorrectly corrected a professor during class.”

Static fills Matt’s arms and chest, and his face heats up. He opens his mouth to fire something back, but Foggy cuts him off. “Matt, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Matt expels a heavy breath through his nose. For a moment, all he can take in is the deafening silence coming from the rest of the group—a silence accented by the rapid beating of Foggy’s heart.

A stiff smile sets itself onto Matt’s face. “Sure,” he says, because he knows he can’t say anything else, not in front of everybody. 

“Cool. Jake, I think it’s your turn?” Foggy prompts as he stands and Matt follows. They step over Marco, Matt more wobbly than he’d care to admit, and Marci rolls back out of their way before he can trip over the leg of her chair. 

The group carries on with the game as they approach the door, Jake half-heartedly raising the next topic while Marci snickers to herself quietly. 

Foggy holds the door open for Matt, who hesitates a moment before walking through it wordlessly. He’s in the kind of mood to find this patronizing, but he bites his tongue. 

The door shuts behind them, and with a click of the latch bolt sliding into place, it muffles the sounds of the group and Marco’s indie playlist and leaves Matt and Foggy alone. 

“So, uh,” Foggy says, and he sounds less like he’s unsure and more like he’s thoroughly pissed, “what the hell was that?” 

“It was a game,” Matt says defensively. “You didn’t have to take it that far.” Even the haze of alcohol clouding his mind isn’t enough to quiet the small voice inside him that yells hypocrite, but he doesn’t take his accusation back.

Laughing sharply in disbelief, Foggy says, “I didn’t take it anywhere you didn’t take it first. Seriously, what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.” The adrenaline in his system is making him shake, and Matt crosses his arms to quell it. “Should we go back in?” he suggests, since they seem to be at a stalemate.

Foggy is quiet for a moment. “No, I don’t think we should,” he says finally, words rapid with poorly-concealed frustration, “I think we should talk about how much of a giant—hmm. Hmmm.”

Matt raises his eyebrows, dares him to go on. “What was that?” he asks, more than able to fill in the blanks. _A giant dick, perhaps? Giant asshole?_

Foggy sucks in a deep breath, like if he doesn’t center himself his arm is going to reach out of its own accord and deck Matt in the face. After a moment he course-corrects, choosing his words carefully. “What I’m trying to say is that something is clearly wrong. Tell me what’s up.”

Matt uncrosses his arms. He readjusts his grip on his cane and twists it in circles. He opens his mouth to further deny anything’s wrong, but Foggy continues before he can: 

“Look… Why don’t we call it a night. It’s getting late anyway, and we’re probably waking up the whole dorm right now.”

Matt thinks that just about the last thing he wants is to be alone with Foggy in the awkward quiet of their room. Then again, perhaps the awkwardness they’ve created in Brett and Jake’s room is an even less enticing option. 

He concedes with an, “If you’re sure,” and Foggy’s hair swishes against the collar of his shirt as he moves his head—a nod, which he narrates a moment after.

Matt leans against the wall, out of sight, as Foggy reopens the door to wave a quick goodbye for the both of them. 

“Thanks again for the invite, Brett, Jake. We had a good time.”

“Yeah, yeah, sort out your shit,” Marci calls out.

Brett adds under his breath, “Please.”

“Chill out, guys,” Foggy says. “It’s all good.”

Matt breathes a sound that’s more scoff than laugh; then, Foggy’s shutting the door, and the two of them are heading back to their room down the hall. Their footsteps echo off the thin carpeting and bounce off the walls.

The silence between them stretches like overly tacky taffy, the kind that gets between the teeth and sticks around beyond its welcome. And yet, Matt can’t help but appreciate the distaste for what it is, knowing it’s but a sample of what’s to come the second they shut themselves away in their room.

And he’s right. They get back to their room, and Matt considers bee-lining for his shower basket to make a quick escape, but before he gets the chance, Foggy plops down onto the floor and pats the ground in front of him.

“Please, take a seat, get comfortable,” Foggy says lightly, and Matt does his best to keep the strain out of his smile as he leans his cane against the wall, kicks off his shoes, and sits down criss-cross applesauce on the ground in front of his bed, facing Foggy. 

Matt’s heart beats seven times before Foggy breaks the silence, saying, “I’m sorry I embarrassed you back there. That was mean.” 

“Thank you.”

After a beat of quiet, Foggy says, as though he’s a mother speaking to a young child, “Do you have anything to apologize for?”

Matt’s teeth grate together as his jaw clenches. Still, he keeps his lips upturned as he tilts his head. 

“Really?” Foggy asks, voice high with disbelief. “Okay.”

“I’m not going to apologize for playing the game,” Matt says.

“But you weren’t just playing a game.” Foggy’s voice rises yet remains steady as he says, “Seriously, it’s almost like you wanted to hurt me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Matt says, and this time the tiny voice yells, _“Liar!”_ He swallows. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I don’t know…. Did I do something? Piss you off somehow?”

“You’re fine, Foggy.” Matt fiddles with the hem of his sock.

Foggy sighs. Rubbing at his eyes, he says, “This doesn’t seem fine, though, to be completely honest with you. Tell me what’s going on.” 

Before Matt can respond, Foggy continues, “Please don’t lie to me. I’m not stupid: I can tell something’s bothering you.” 

Matt’s chest deflates. His shoulders move down from where they’ve found themselves scrunched up, and he mumbles, “I didn’t call you stupid.”

One lone hiccup of laughter bumping its way out of his chest, Foggy says with humor, “And I appreciate that.” 

Matt chuckles. 

Foggy pauses for just a moment, enough to bring in the mood, if only somewhat. “I’m going to be honest: I’m trying really hard to keep my cool here. Please just tell me what’s going on. A guy can only deflect with humor for so long before it stops being funny.”

Matt breathes an emotionless laugh. He stops forcing his smile and lets his face grow more serious. Sighing, he considers everything that’s happened tonight. Sure, Foggy started this whole charade with his octopus jab, but maybe he’s right that Matt took things further than he should have.

Besides, he has to consider that, at the root, this whole situation is his own fault. If he were simply less clingy—less octopus-y—Foggy never would have had anything to say on the matter. This mess is his own fault, and it’s time to clean it up. 

“I’m sorry you were offended by what I said during the game,” Matt says finally. 

“You’re sorry I was offended or you’re sorry that you offended me?”

“Both.”

Foggy hums. “Apology accepted. Now comes the uncomfortable question: why? Where did I fuck this up?”

“I mean, ‘fucked up’ might be a bit strong…,” Matt hedges.

With a long, drawn-out groan, Foggy throws his hands onto his knees as he says, “Can we forget semantics for one minute and try that communication thing? I’ve heard it’s fun.” 

“Doesn’t sound very fun to me,” Matt says. When he’s met with silence, he sighs. “But I guess I could give it a whirl.” 

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready,” Foggy says, and the “whenever” staggers out of his mouth, drawn out and slow. “Go right ahead. I’m listening.”

Shifting so that his legs are stretched out in front of him, Matt pops his elbows, rolls his wrists, and says, “It’s really not a big deal. You didn’t mean anything by it anyway; I’m being stupid.”

“You’re being stupid about...?” 

Matt trudges on. “The whole thing is really my fault, when you think about it. I should have known better. I do know better. It won’t happen again.”

“Uhhh—” Foggy tries, but at this point, Matt’s full-on ranting—like a train flying off the tracks, and now there’s no way to pump the brakes. 

“So what I’m saying, Foggy, is that I’m sorry, I really am. You did nothing wrong. You deserve to have boundaries. I just wish—nevermind.”

Foggy runs a hand through his hair. “No, finish that thought.”

Matt sighs. “I know that I’m the problem in the first place, but you didn’t have to say what you did to Brett. You could have talked to me about it first.”

Mouth opening with a click of his tongue, Foggy is otherwise quiet for a moment before he says, “What I said to Brett… Wait, do you mean the octopus thing?”

Hearing the words again makes Matt cringe. Having his own actions thrown back in his face like that makes small bubbles of anger, of embarrassment rise in his chest.

“Because I hate to break it to you, but you do do that.” His tone implies he’s joking, but Matt takes him seriously.

“I know I do. I—I’ll work on it.” 

“You don’t have to work on it? I never said it was a problem, Matt.”

Matt can’t keep himself from snapping back. “Then why did you say it in the first place?”

“I was just kidding around. I didn’t realize this was such a sensitive subject.”

“I’m not being sensitive.”

“I called the subject sensitive, not you.”

Matt concedes the point with his silence. He pulls in and then lets out a slow breath. He hears Foggy’s fingers rubbing together as he worries his hands. 

Matt, in an attempt to close off the subject and put an end to this atrocious night, says, “Anyway, it won’t happen again.” 

He pushes off from the floor, but Foggy only follows suit, saying, “Wait… Do you mean trying to humiliate me or the—” 

“Yeah,” Matt says, because if he hears the word “octopus” one more time tonight, he thinks he’ll about die. “All of it. I’ll reel it back in.”

He moves to the spot on his shelf where he keeps his shower basket, but Foggy’s still one step behind him.

Matt goes on, “I should have known I was overstepping, but I didn’t because I…”

Foggy pulls in a breath. “Shit.” His hair rustles again as he swipes his hand back through it. “This is a wounded duck thing, isn’t it?”

Never having been fond of that phrasing either, Matt clenches his jaw.

Perhaps Foggy notices this, because he corrects himself: “That is to say… Matt, when’s the last time you got a hug?”

Matt’s hands tighten around the basket, and the plastic edges of its lattice pattern cut into his skin. He huffs. “Last week, remember?”

Foggy reaches forward and pulls the basket out of his hands.

“What are you—”

“No, I mean before me. When’s the last time you were hugged, Matt?”

Matt forces a smile. “This is theft, you know,” he says with a nod to the basket.

“It was your dad, wasn’t it?” 

“It wasn’t that long ago. Can I go brush my teeth?” Matt folds his arms.

“That’s why you’re so worked up about this,” Foggy says, heart racing. “You trusted me, and I let you down.” 

“It’s not a big deal. I—”

“But it is a big deal. I messed this whole thing up. Move over?”

Matt steps out of the way as Foggy moves forward and puts Matt’s shower basket back in its place on the shelf. Then he’s placing a hand on Matt’s shoulder and nudging him towards Matt’s bed as he says, “Let’s sit down for a minute and talk.”

“I thought that’s what we’ve been doing,” Matt quips, even as he sits down on the edge of his bed.

The mattress dips beside him as Foggy sits down, too. “No, we’ve been standing and talking, which is much less comfortable, if you ask me.”

They sit in silence for a moment. 

“You didn’t mess this up,” Matt says, at last. “I’m the one who couldn’t control myself. I should know better. If anybody should be apologizing, it’s me.”

“You already did, and I told you, it’s fine.”

“No, not about the game—though I am still sorry about that. I mean…” He finger-quotes as he says, “the ‘octopus’ thing. I crossed a line.”

“But you didn’t cross anything, Matt,” Foggy insists, and his near hand grips Matt’s shoulder and pulls him into a sideways hug. “That’s just the kind of friends that we are.” 

“Friends don’t usually do that. You don’t do that with your other friends.”

“You’re right; I don’t.” 

The knowledge that he’s the exception, that he’s special, makes Matt’s heart speed up. Still, he can’t help but hear between the lines.

“And that’s what you want: for us to be friends,” he surmises.

“Um...yes? Do you not also want that?” Foggy asks, a touch of humor in his voice.

“No, of course,” Matt says, and he starts to pull away. He plasters a smile onto his face as he says, “You’re the closest friend I have.” 

“And you’re mine,” Foggy says. He pulls against Matt’s push, holds them together as he continues, “But there’s something else on your mind. Isn’t there?”

“What do you mean?”

Foggy breathes a laugh. “Come on, man. Like I said before: I know you. What’s up?” 

“It’s so stupid it’s not even worth saying,” Matt says, and he knows that it’s true. After all, what are the odds that Foggy, one of the most good people he’s met, could want him—especially after tonight’s shenanigans? 

“May as well say it anyways,” Foggy coaxes him, hand rubbing Matt’s shoulder. “We’re already here, after all.”

Matt rolls his eyes and his wrist and says, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just go to sleep. It’s so late.” 

“There’s nothing you want to say to me,” Foggy says, clear disbelief set in his voice. 

Matt pretends to think about it for a moment. “Nope.”

Foggy hums. He lets go of Matt, but he doesn’t move away; instead he twists to better face him. “What if I said that I like your octopus tendencies?” he asks.

Matt tilts his head. He opens his mouth, but Foggy continues, “What if I said that I wish I could get the full octopus experience even when we haven’t been drinking?” He takes a breath. “What if I said that I wanted to be more than friends? But wait… That’s so stupid, it’s not even worth saying, huh?” 

Matt sits speechless for a long couple of moments, lips parted and heart racing. “Well…,” he says finally, “I guess it could be worth going over once or twice.”

Foggy chuckles. His hands brush Matt’s, and Matt lets him take hold of them. 

“You’re sweaty,” Foggy says quietly, and it makes Matt laugh.

“I’m nervous.”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

Matt swallows. “We sound like we’re in a cheap romance novel,” he points out.

“Embrace it,” Foggy says. 

Matt doesn’t need more encouragement. He leans in slowly, gets just close enough that he can feel Foggy starting to lean in too and can taste the alcohol on his breath—then pounces. 

Foggy falls back onto the bed with an “Oof!” while Matt’s limbs tangle around him. 

They’re both laughing when Matt says, “You want the octopus experience? I’ll show you octopus.” He squeezes tighter, grinning as Foggy shakes from laughter beneath him. 

“Wow, I was only getting Octopus Lite before, huh?”

“I upgraded you,” Matt says. “On the house.”

“Well, maybe I can repay you somehow,” Foggy says, and the flirt loses its heat in their laughter. 

“Oh?” Matt asks, playing along. “And how do you suppose you might do that?”

“I guess you’ll just have to find out.”

Matt grins and says, “I will. But for now….” He squeezes even tighter. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

Foggy frees an arm to wrap around Matt. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


End file.
